


Two Rooms

by alivehawk1701



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:28:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24947659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alivehawk1701/pseuds/alivehawk1701
Summary: Set after the events of the episode "One Room" House is dealing with the memories of past abuse coming to the surface, more than he let on, and more than he can deal with, Wilson comes to his aid
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson, Greg House/Original Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 91





	Two Rooms

“You say you don’t know why you picked me—that’s not true, you do know,” I said, catching her eyes on the last word before turning to pace the other way, “Is it because you think I have some kind of useful insight? That I might know what you’re going through?” I’d come to face her again but I did  _ not _ , I repeat, did  _ not _ look her in the eyes, that would encourage her, like a dog or other impressionable small animal. She’s too young. Too young to be so scared. Too young to feel this way. Too young to have to go through something like this. She has had less than a week to process this, not years—there is no scar, just an open wound. The pain is new, she’s freshly broken, not even time, her all important time, to mend any of it.

“Maybe,” she answered and I met her eyes at that because I’d wanted her to dismiss that contingency. The fact that I stopped pacing didn’t go unnoticed by her. And I’m not saying she’s smart, she’s not, just observant. And it’s not hard being observant when you’re trapped in a room with someone. She blinked her constantly teary eyes and asked with an extraordinary amount of impropriety, “Do you?”

“No.”

“You don’t,” she said flatly.

“You think I’m lying? You think one person who was raped can sense when someone else has been too? Is it stamped on their foreheads? Do they get matching tattoos?”

“I don’t know!” she yelled in frustration, “Maybe—maybe it’s that simple, maybe that’s how it works.”

‘Truth has to be substantiated—unlike that statement which was totally _unsubstantiated_ ,” I said, continuing to pace, shoes squeaking on the floor, cane hitting linoleum, the velcro of her restraints catching on hospital sheets behind me, then in front of me as she rearranged her arms, holding the blanket fast and secure to her chest.

I rolled my eyes at how easily she was staring back at me and chalked it up to being a moron and oblivious. She didn’t know me. If she did she wouldn’t be making eye-contact. The only explanation for such audacity is that she’s too dumb to realize I am  _ not _ someone you want to purposefully, for extended periods of time, make eye-contact with. 

I continued, not understanding why it was so hard for her to apply reason, in any degree, to how she thought, “There is no basis whatsoever to support that kind of hypothesis. People can have differing levels of intuitiveness, as a personality trait, maybe that part of their brain is bigger and better than others, maybe its environmental, they had to learn it—people can have differing levels of personal safeguards, they can be more or less open, share more, or less, could be their eyes are set wide enough apart or they have some other facial features that visually influence how someone responds to them—but sensing something from someone is impossible, there is no scientific basis for any of it.”

“So?” she retorted, obviously wanting to believe in telepathy, “You can’t prove _everything_.”

“True—but you can disprove everything else—see how it works?”

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” she said and narrowed her eyes, “You wanna help me right?”

“Short answer—yes—and obviously there are things I’m not telling you—I don’t spill my guts to just anyone, or _anyone_.”

“But you want _me_ to.”

“Only a small portion.”

She lowered her eyes, very intentionally adopting a posture that made me feel suddenly very bad about yelling at her. I’d told her I wasn’t a nice guy. Warning was given, she didn’t heed it. Not my fault. Told her I couldn’t help her. So why was I trying? Because she reminded me of myself? No, that’s too Wilson. Because if I can help her then I can help myself, finally come to terms with my past? Okay . . . that was somewhere between Wilson and Cameron, hard to tell them apart sometimes.

She looked up at me after the appropriate amount of pause and a tear slid down her face. I stopped pacing for the second time, bracing myself on my left leg, balancing with my cane as I took all of my weight off my right. Her mouth twisted and her nose turned red and she was fighting not to make it ugly. And somehow it worked. Most people look terrible when they cry. Not her. I hated it. I wanted her to look awful, wanted her to wipe away salty tears and snot and force herself into normalcy because it’s too damn ugly, too undignified.

“You think I’m too scared to talk about it?” she asked in a shaky voice, “You think I’m not reliving it every moment that I lay here? You think that I’m a coward, some weak little girl who won’t talk until someone else does first?” she ran a sleeve over her nose and jerked hair out of her face, straining out some of the hysteria in her voice, adopting a more controlled, low tone, “The reason I’m not talking about it is because its like its still happening—I know you’re supposed to talk about it, that’s how you get things out of your head but I can’t, I just can’t,” she stopped talking to suck more snot up her nose, eyes huge blue wells for tears, “I just want to wait until I can breathe—until I can stop thinking about it, I want to wait until it feels at least just a little bit better,” her voice broke apart and drifted into silence before she shook her head slightly, saying in a low voice, “Maybe it never gets better, I don’t know.”

For a moment her small, hiccupped breaths seemed to keep time with the beeping of her monitors. The odd synergy was confining and oppressive in the small room, like the space had adopted some sort of system, some kind of order all its own, like it was its own universe. Why was she doing this to me? I fought against a tightness in my throat, the resistance of my own thoughts like some futile game of tug-of-war and I was about to let go of the rope.

“It does,” I said after the silence and she looked up, seeking confirmation that she so desperately needed, hoping, praying probably, that I could tell her something she wanted to hear, something she could use. Now there’s an interesting thing to pray for, pray that someone else was abused—puts a nice spin to the whole religious thing.

“Not all the way better,” I continued slowly, uncertainly, “Enough so that you can stop thinking about it every moment . . . enough that a song doesn’t set you back or cologne someone’s wearing . . . enough that someone can touch you and you don’t feel like screaming . . .”

“You _were_ lying.”

“I’m good at it,” I nodded, “Though apparently not as good as I thought, least not with you.”

“Not with someone else who’s felt the same you mean?”

“Key word _felt_ —that’s good news for you—feel better?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you didn’t say anything.”

“I said plenty.”

“Who was it? When was it? How did you—”

“You never asked me any of that—asking for confirmation and demanding to know every detail is different—you should know that,” I said, dragging my right foot across the floor a few feet, resettling my weight on my left leg, pain throbbing dully in my thigh.

“You’re still scared.”

I closed my eyes, trying to steady myself, feeling shaky and wobbly, starting to pace again so I could at least distract myself from the pain in my leg, “No—I just don’t have time for this. You heard what you wanted, that means you’re good, I’m good, I can go.”

“Was it a long time ago?”

I stopped pacing, ungracefully ending on my right leg, causing me to flinch. I drew in a deep breath, looking over my shoulder but not turning all the way around, “That’s a relative statement.”

“How old were you?”

“Younger than you,” I said, turning ninety degrees, settling my cane against my leg, my chest tight and unyielding to my lungs.

“Who was it?” she asked weakly.

“A friend of my fathers,” I said, my tongue thick in my mouth, a lot like it had been then, the bad taste of vomit and cheap tequila coating my tongue, “They served together.”

She shook her head, searching for more from me but not wanting to blurt it all out at once, “How?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said impatiently, “None of the details matter—you were just talking about feelings—feeling the same way, and I’m telling you I felt the same way—that’s what you wanted to hear. I felt trapped, I felt used, I felt ashamed, disgusted, everything you’re feeling—it’s no big deal, what you’re feeling right now is not unusual, it’s expected—it’s a normal way to react to something like that”

“Did you feel like it was your fault?”

“Yes,” I said quickly, edgily, “I thought it was all me—I was drinking, asking for it, didn’t fight hard enough,” I shrugged, “For a long time he made me feel very special,” I chanced looking up at her but couldn’t keep it up, “Convinced yet?”

“No.”

“What else do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” she insisted again, and my patience slipped another step on the newly waxed, just mopped floor of my mind.

“Yes _you do_ —why don’t you just tell me so I can say it and leave.”

The blankets drew closer to her chest, another tear, another weighted lowering of her eyes, her young brow creased in angry frustration. Anger was good. I could work with anger, lot better than self-pity. I wanted to keep this as neat as possible, a process which didn’t involve wallowing in anything. For either of us. I didn’t want to open any doors, any more than I already had, I’ll give her the bare minimum, that’s it. Anything more is too much. She can’t ask me to open something I closed, forcefully, with locks, and a deadbolt, and steel bars, and a dresser pushed in front of it, not when she knows what it's like.

“Do you still think about it?” she asked.

“You want me to say no, that’ll you’ll forget about it eventually.”

When she didn’t answer immediately, eyes flickering up to mine like silver dollars on the bottom of a pool, I knew I was at least getting somewhere. She wanted to hear she would forget. If I told her I never thought about it she’d know it was possible for her because it was possible for me. And everything would be all better. Life goes on. You can just go back to the way things were and wait for the bad memories to break apart and fade, never to bother you again. Except it doesn’t work that way.

I decided immediately that I didn’t want to give a fuck about her, or what happened to her, I wanted out of here. I wanted to hate her for bringing this up. I wanted to hate her for somehow knowing that it had happened to me. Worse, I wanted to hate her for only having to go through it once, not over years, not over and over. But I didn’t hate her. I didn’t. We were the same. And that scared me. It scared me more than I can say. Finding parallels between yourself and a teenage girl is a little unsettling.

“Sure, I think about it—but I deal with it,” I growled, “And so will you—there’s nothing else you _can_ do,” I leveled my eyes with hers, seeing the reflection of pill bottles and razor blades in her pupils, “Your life isn’t over,” I said, taking a step toward her which was also closer to the door. If I could run I would be running, but somehow I owed her more, maybe I really did want to help her. I stood near the end of her bed, the walls closing in around me, “I was abused, raped. I’m alive. You’ll live. Now leave me alone.” I glared and was only met with a simpering, lost gaze that reminded me too much of a reflection staring back at me from a mirror a long ago.

The cold metal of the handle met my hand _(cold metal of a car door, frozen pane of glass fogging over, the light of dawn just coming over the horizon)_ and I swung the door open.

Fuck her.

Fuck her for coming here.

Fuck Cuddy for making me do clinic duty.

Fuck _him_.

I limped to an elevator, grimacing with each painful step, the hollow agony whispering about the lack of escape and the pill bottle rattling in my pocket. At the elevator, eyes closed I found the bottle in my jacket pocket, taking it out, focusing on getting two of them into my mouth as fast as humanly possible, swallowing one, letting the other roll over my taste-buds, leaving its disgusting bitter taste over my tongue before swallowing it too.

I’d been only fourteen. My father had been stationed somewhere long enough so that I’d developed some relationships, as much as I could anyway. I’d unpacked all my things. There were no more boxes in my room. By coincidence Mr. Burk lived down the block from us _(Major Burk, Christ, have some respect, Greg)_ and Dad got to relive all the good old days with him. Got to sit on the porch and chew the fat and drink beer to the annoyance of my mother who hated talk about the war, or about anything other than oatmeal raisin cookies and knitting nettles and the glory inherent in the continuous denial of awful truths.

_(thanks for picking me up, I’m sorry, my Dad’s not around, he’d be so angry with me)_

He drove an old Thunderbird. Huge car. Maroon. Veteran license plate.

_(it’s no problem, glad to help your old man out, even if that means picking his kid up from some hooligan party—careful with the leather, you’re not going to throw up are you?)_

He was always around the house. On the weekends, on whatever day Mom had made a pot roast and it was too much for the three of us. He was fortyy years older than me. Started his military career young, lied to get into the Army though that was apparently an admirable quality, according to my father, under those circumstances. Made it to the rank of Major sooner than anyone my father knew. He taught me how to shoot, taking me to the firing range, friendly, personable, a good friend of the family. I liked him better than my dad. My Dad was his superior, so he knew what being bossed around by him was like. I confided in him. About a lot of things. I looked up to him. He always listened. Eager to listen. I hadn’t known that was all part of it. Part of the process. Little things at first. Sitting too close. An arm around my shoulder. Little by little. Made it all so normal. Didn’t want me to be ashamed of my body.

_(thanks again, Mr. Burk, really, I better get inside though—hey the door’s locked)_

Who was my dad going to trust? Someone he’d served with, someone he respected, someone who had medals and honors—or his son?

_(You’re not a bad son, Greg—you’re a very good boy, you can’t let your father get to you, you’re a good boy, such a beautiful boy)_

God, why was the elevator taking so long? My hand ran up and down my thigh, tongue pushing over the roof of my mouth, the taste of my pills still coating its surface.

_(I like you, a lot—you know I do. I know you like me. Its okay, this is okay, it’s okay)_

My dad wouldn’t have believed me. No, that’s not right—he wouldn’t have cared. Not about the times he’d watched me jerk off, followed months later by his own rough hands on me, in me, out in the garage grabbing more icecream for a barbeque, my parents just inside the house. Always made it quick. Wherever we were. A quick glance. Undetectable to anyone. Just going to grab another soda, or something from my room. No one noticed. And then I’d gone to some party and gotten drunk and couldn’t get home so Mr. Burk volunteered to pick me up and get me home safely, that makes it my fault.

_(sound of leather seats, street lamp outside the car window, moist breath on my face, heavy hot body leaning over me, sweaty hand groping down my pants)_

A cold sweat had broken out over my skin, the lights in the hall were too bright. I wanted the darkness of my office. I wanted to stop everything. Maybe more pills, I don’t know, maybe I’ll go home, if I can concentrate enough to drive my bike, take something else, something more, more pills, more something. I want, need, to get out of my head—again, _her_ fault, not mine. I’m a grown up, we deal with things in grown up ways. I’m going home. I’m getting out of here. I want to feel empty.

_(tears my pants down, twisting me around, lifting, pushing, no one can hear me, windows rolled up tight, all I can hear is him, gasping, moaning, the wet sound of him pumping his erection over my bare back, then my face pressed into the metal of the door, telling me to be good, be quiet)_

Elevator opened, finally.

Wilson.

I stopped my immediate rushing into the elevator and rolled my eyes, “Going up?” I asked him, glancing once at his surprised expression, moving into the elevator.

“I was just—”

“Whatever,” I interrupted, not wanting to hear it. Chance was an ugly thing. I wasn’t supposed to run into Wilson in the elevator.

“. . . coming to see you,” he finished nonetheless.

“Because . . . ?” I trailed off, the fourth floor button already lit so I didn’t have to stab it with the end of my cane.

“Because you’re my friend,” he said.

“Right,” I said, the doors closing too slowly, hating his forced cheerfulness, and how he insisted on saying he was my friend over and over. I wish he’d stop saying that, especially if he didn’t mean it, especially if he had some _other_ reason to see me, “Nothing to do with anything, then?”

“What’s anything?”

“I’m not talking to you.”

“You’re talking now.”

“It’s something to do—elevators are boring places.”

“House—what’s going on?” he asked, glancing over at me, “If I had to guess I’d say it had something to do with your patient.”

“Bad guess.”

Elevator beeped. Stepped out. _Don’t follow me,_ I thought, _leave me alone Wilson_.

But he didn’t leave. He followed. All the way to my office.

“You were talking with her a long time.”

“Forced to talk with her—she tried to kill herself because she couldn’t talk to me, you think I want to be responsible for that? No thanks.”

I’m going home. Have to get away. I grabbed my backpack, rummaging over my desk even though I didn’t really need anything but my keys. I slung the bag over my shoulder and rounded the desk, only Wilson stopped me, stepping in front of me.

“House,” he intercepted as only Wilson can intercept.

“Wilson—move,” I warned, almost falling backward because he’d made me miss a step.

“What happened?!” he demanded, “You didn’t seem okay when I saw you last—Cuddy mentioned—”

“Mentioned what? Just how much are you two talking about me behind my back?”

“We’re not—” he stammered, blinking rapidly.

“Keeping an eye out for me, Jimmy?” I asked, “Or is that keeping an eye _on_ me? How is it being Cuddy’s bitch? Or is it the other way around? Why are both contingencies completely nauseating to think about?”

“House—”

“Get out of my way.”

“No—House, talk to me—obviously _something_ happened.”

“Nothing happened.”

“She _said_ this girl singled you out—why would she do that?”

“No idea.”

“House—you’re upset—please, talk to me.”

“I’ve had enough talking,” I retorted, “You guys send me in there to talk and what did you think I’d get out of it?” I impatiently turned my head to the side, wanting to push past him but not even sure I could I was shaking so badly, “God, I’m sick of hearing how talking with people, dealing with people, will do me good, humanize me—Cuddy—you—both of you sound like a fucking broken record—you think if I learn how to identify with people, feel their pain, that I’ll be a better person—that’s not logical, it’s just nauseating.”

“Cuddy didn’t force this girl on you, we didn’t plan this—you’re in enough pain, I didn’t want you to feel this girl’s pain too—not even if I thought you could, or _would_ — and it's not like you can personally identify with her, it’s just . . .”

I closed my eyes at the wrong moment, looked away at the wrong word. Wilson’s voice tapered off and I silently damned him and my leg and the narrow space between my desk and the wall.

“House . . .” He moved closer, only a bit, and I jumped back, almost to the wall, muscles coiling, adrenaline rushing through my veins, heart roaring in my ears.

I didn’t need a mirror or any kind of reflection to know that my eyes had gone way too wide and were filled to the brim with fear, choking my vision until everything was reduced to a tiny foot by foot space in front of me, all together revealing too much emotion for what I had wanted to be a quick hi and what I had hoped would verge on a jiffy exit.

Wilson blinked, breaking the static between us, “Okay,” he said steadily, letting out a breath.

Air sucked into my lungs, I dropped my eyes like anvils and exhaled, my skin crawling, the familiar nausea causing my stomach to twist, threatening to flip entirely, the fire of memory making me shiver rather than burn. I swallowed excess spit, squeezing my eyes shut then opening them, trying to find my footing, “I need out of here,” I breathed, hopefully in a reliable, believable way. When Wilson didn’t move or respond I licked my lips, “Please?” his head started to shake slightly, shock paling his face. I rolled my eyes, casting my attention ardently over his shoulder, “Look, one of your cancer kids has escaped and is wandering the perilous halls—better go save them.”

He stared back at me, apparently a fool but not fooled, mouth slack.

“It’s Cuddy,” I tried instead, still looking over his shoulder out into the hall, “Oh my god—her shirt just slipped off—it’s incredible.”

“House, stop it,” Wilson said, holding his hand up.

“Christ,” a hand slid over my eyes and anger finally seethed in me, so much better than fear, hand dropping, eyes meeting his, “How about your long lost brother?”

“You’re trying to make  _ me _ angry now?”

“I’m trying to get out of here and you’re in my way!”

My left arm rose to push him out of the way as my right hand kept me steady with my cane against the floor, expecting him to dart out of the way, not actually push back. One of his hands gripped my upper arm, throwing me off balance as my forward motion was halted, enough for me to have to fall back slightly on my right leg.

Number one, Wilson has two good legs and is thus more steady, two, he’s stronger than I thought he would be, and three, he’s obviously serious about not letting me go. I jerked and tried wrenching my arm free but as soon as my muscles strained against his, not getting anywhere  _ (can't move, tried, shaking from trying, he's holding my neck down with one meaty palm, forcing, too strong, too heavy, feel like I’ll split in half, white hot pain) _ I feel my legs go slack under me and then fold and suddenly the floor came up to meet me and my eyes turned dark.

“House!” I heard Wilson shout, consciousness rounded back and I started swearing, my hands somehow splayed on the carpet of my office along with the rest of me. Disoriented, I tried sitting up so my shoulder’s against the wall, hand searching for my cane, eyes swimming into focus. As soon as my vision cleared I saw Wilson kneeling next to me and I groaned, head lolling to the side, looking for my cane, wanting to get up, not knowing how I fell in the first place.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Wilson insisted in near panic, reaching a hand to my shoulder then stopping himself.

“Fine,” eyes rolled to the ceiling then shut, pain radiating up my leg, all the way up my spine, my right hand splayed over my thigh. My breath is coming in short pained gasps. I take what I hope is an accommodating deep breath, filling my lungs, eyes still closed, “You told me to tell the truth,” I said painfully, my head falling back against the wall, the breath I’d taken shuddering as I exhaled it, “I did,” I heard myself, my own thoughts, somehow they don’t mix.

“What—”

“I wanna go home,” I stopped him, sounding like I’d just smoked forty-seven cigarettes in a row, my tongue uncurling like lead from the roof of my mouth, my jaw only relaxing long enough to say the words before clamping shut again.

Wilson didn’t say anything, a few moments passing as I stared at the carpet and he stared at me, then his legs unfolded and he stood, taking a step back. He didn’t offer a hand but stayed close enough, one arm held away from his body in a silent offer of support, patient and suddenly unobtrusive.

“Come on,” he said and I looked up at him. My right leg was bent under me, left was bent at the knee, unfolding the right would be the hard part. Weariness hit me so fast it was like getting hit by a semi-truck, muscles not working, brain sending orders that are sent back without proper postage, piling up as failed messages in the postal room of my mind. But I managed to shift so my left leg could push me at least to a kneeling position, using the wall to stand, slowly. A jolt of pain made me bite back a gasp as my right foot touched the floor. Now standing, more or less, I saw Wilson holding out my cane. I took it, proud at least that I hadn’t needed his help getting up.

“Let me drive you home,” he said quietly and my leg agreed. I nodded. Reached for my bag. We walked slowly down the hall, each of my limping steps as painful as the last, the never ending floor of linoleum making the exit seem farther way then it was, Wilson matching the creeping pace without complaint. 

“House!” we suddenly both heard behind us. Wilson turned, I didn’t. I knew who it was. High heels clicked rhythmically over the floor toward us and I closed my eyes, my whole right arm shuddering with the effort of holding myself up.

“Where are you going?” Cuddy demanded.

I resigned to turning half the way around, “Home.”

“No,” she said, “You’re not, you have a patient,” she said it in the usual annoyed voice she used when I did things she didn’t want me doing, “And what are you doing?” she directed toward Wilson, “Are you his escort?”

“I’m driving him,” Wilson said in a flat, uncompromising tone. I glanced at him, seeing his posture suddenly straighter, his arms to either side, looking Cuddy directly in the eyes, his whole demeanor rippling with energy, daring her to make a move. Anger reddened his cheeks, eyes bright and livid, mouth set and firm.

Cuddy balked at his unexpected challenging pose, making a face, “Is he sick?”

“Cuddy,” Wilson warned, “Leave him alone.”

“He can’t go home every time his leg hurts, he’d be home all the time, he’s got responsibilities.”

“Like this patient? This girl?” Wilson shot back, “It’s not a diagnostics case, it’s not his responsibility.”

“Yes, it is.”

“It’s a therapist’s job!”

“I got her a therapist, she wouldn’t talk to her.”

“One therapist?! You got her  _ one _ therapist.”

“She wanted House.”

“So you give her another therapist, and another, that’s their job, Cuddy!”

“She tried killing herself so she could talk with House.”

“And that wasn’t a sign that maybe she should be admitted? What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that she really  _ must _ be crazy, wanting to talk to House.”

“You forced him into doing this, forced him into doing something he didn’t want to do, something he was obviously not comfortable doing because you enjoy making his life difficult!”

“House isn’t exactly made of glass, Wilson!”

“We’re going,” Wilson turned back to me, hand on my arm, actually starting to walk away from Cuddy who seemed too alarmed that one of her most loyal subjects had turned on her so quickly to react, “End of story.”

She blinked heavy eyelashes, not having once looked over at me, the serious tone of Wilson’s voice quelling her anger. She nodded slowly, frowning, and allowed us to leave.

“I can’t do this,” I gasped, sitting up, arms wrapped loosely around my knees, the middle of the dorm-room bed dipping inwards by his weight, the whole mattress going uneven, the movement rocking me gently side to side.

“What’s the matter?” the voice asked, placing a hand on my bare shoulder.

I shook it off, a shiver coursing down my spine like static. I ran a shaky hand through my hair, fingers pulling at messy strands, eyes closed, “Can’t,” I breathed. Grimaced, still breathing hard, the dim, filtered light from half-slit blinds hiding my expression from him. 

“Come on,” the voice urged. Familiar. How long had it been? Knew him. Liked him. Liked him too much. Felt a kiss on my shoulder, flick of his tongue against my clammy skin, he was warm and sexy, everything I wanted. Sick. Disgusting. This was familiar too. Wanting. Then having. Being something. For someone.

Shook my head, “Get out.”

“Greg,” the voice pleaded. God, why did he sound just like him? Why did everything feel the same way it did with him? Why did I expect to feel the prickle of stubble on my face, on my chest, on the tenderest of places, even when his face was smooth. Boyish. The creak of springs rather than the sound of leather seats. I’d wanted it then too. Hadn't I? I didn't know. I don't know. What I wanted stopped being part of the equation. And he never stopped. Still smiled, still laughed, same thing, over and over. In the backyard. On the porch with the sound of my mother doing dishes inside. His index finger pressed to his lips to hush me. Again.

“I said get out of here,” swung both legs over the side of my bed, bare feet meeting cold linoleum floors. Shaking. I was shaking. It wasn’t cold.

“I think I should stay,” Wilson said. He wasn’t listening. Apartment door closed behind him. Latch locked. Knob turned. Settled loudly. Too loudly. Thick, unyielding door.

“I thought . . .” the voice said from the darkness on the dorm bed. Echoed over empty walls. Hand touched me. Phantom hand. Out of the darkness. Jumped to my feet, trying to hide the panic. In only my boxers, Cock half-hard, cool air shocking as I stood in the middle of my dorm-room.

“Just go,” I said, this time pleading. I wasn’t going to beg him. Wasn’t going to moan as he forced and pushed and twisted into me. Wasn’t going to let him hurt me. He was my lab partner who wouldn’t go away, whose eyes were mirrors. He was my father’s friend who had always been there, whose eyes were black swamps.

“No,” Wilson persisted quietly, coat still on, cheeks starting to darken from the change in temperature, cold to warm.

Standing in the middle of my apartment, my leg lifeless under me, cane supporting me. Dark. No lights on.

No lights as he threw his shirt back on, shoving bare feet into shoes. I was only listening, not watching, as he opened the door and left my dorm-room without another word.

Light switched on in the kitchen. Sound of Wilson’s footsteps across my floor. Faucet turned on. I wanted to retreat to my bedroom. Wanted to close the door. Hide. If only that didn’t feel like a trap. I’d be locked in. No closed doors. Living room was open. It had windows. Found the couch. Managed to sit. Told my breathing to slow. Told my heart to calm down. 

Footsteps advancing. Light switched off. Movement. Opened my eyes to slits and saw the refraction of light on water in a glass in front of me. Reached to take it. Wilson stepped around me, sitting to my left. Water touched my dry lips and I almost choked as I tried to swallow.

“You could have told me,” his voice said. Distant but right next to me.

“Wasn’t important,” set the glass on the table in front of me, closed my eyes again. I could feel him next to me. Feel the air around me stir as he inhaled, exhaled. Felt the couch dipping towards him.

“It is important.”

“Wilson,” I said, raising a hand to my forehead, the pad of my thumb running over the wrinkles in my brow, “Just go away.”

“It . . . wasn’t your fault,” he said hesitantly. Too hesitantly.

Teeth clenched, nostrils flared,  _ why does everyone say the same thing? _

“It’s never—”

“Wilson, get out of here,” one more try, restrained, jaw tight.

“House,”

Somehow he tries again, laying an arm lightly on my forearm. This time I freeze. Don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t let go. Hit him. Push him. Just wanted up. Wanted him to let me go. Why did he even try and touch me? The idiot tried that already and I’d fainted. Must really be desperate.

“Don’t,” Wilson pleaded. Eyes opened enough to see his hand in the pale light. Felt the rise and fall of his shoulder near mine. He was frozen. My eyes shut again. Breathing through my mouth, I leaned toward him. Slowly. Maybe he thought I wanted him to hold me. When I was close enough I felt my heart rate increase, thundering in my ears as I leaned my forehead on his shoulder, curling my arms into his chest. Felt him tremble. Inhaled deeply, let my hands search, claw, drag down his body. No plan. Just reacting. Hand makes contact with the warmth radiating from the front of his pants.

“House,” a warning, expelled in one breath, his body jerks uncontrollably at the contact but I just move with him,. Not listening. Don’t care. So hot. Can’t breathe. Like a hand around my throat, like fumes, like my face pressed into a pillow, pressed into the mattress. Maybe I don’t want to take a breath. If you don’t breathe you’re not real. I’m not real.

“House, stop,” I almost hear. Kept my eyes closed. Closed. Felt his hips move under the heel of my hand, can’t tell if he’s trying to move away or move closer. Doesn’t matter. I can feel his cock hardening under my hand. Pushed. Kneaded. Pressed harder. Curled and let go. Hips moved more, rising under my palm. His breath is hot near my neck.

Felt him resist. He’s going to get up. It’s only been two seconds. Two seconds of my hand over Wilson’s cock and his hips canting up into my palm. That’s it. All he’ll do. He’s going to get up. He’s going to leave me.

I leaned forward, closing in on his neck, lips finding the pulse there. My hand is still over the hardness in his pants, caressing slowly back and forth. The other is at his shoulder, pressing him to the couch. Lips slide over the skin of his neck, breathy kisses, wetting the skin.

It stopped him. He’s frozen again. A sharp, startled groan breaks from his throat when my hand touches the warmth of his stomach, prickles of pubic hair as I push my hand down his pants. 

Let me. Let me do this. This I can do. If I do, he’ll go, this is all I have, all I have to give. One hand still on his shoulder. Holding him there. Forcing him there. He can’t move.

The dark, bottomless pit that has opened under me is a chasm of pounding heartbeats, mine and his, rushing blood and dull blackened thoughts that move like sludge in my mind. Dark. Frightening. His hips are rocking steadily into my hand and when I looked his eyes are closed, mouth open, head thrown back. I’m half on-top of him, one hand locked onto his trembling, shifting shoulder, the other finally freeing his cock from his pants.

“Stop, House,” Wilson’s saying, his hands are on me, pushing, “Stop,” but his cock is hard, slick, as I wrapped my fingers around him, pumping my fist. My own body is hot and useless. I feel like liquid, like I’m flowing over him, my lips finding his gasping mouth in the dark, kissing him breathlessly, hungrily, suffocating him. Blood rushed to my groin, hips wanted to rock and grind into something, jeans tight and restricting.

I felt the blow to my right thigh and pain flashed away the darkness in my mind. When he hit me again I fell back, flames licking up my whole right side. Managed to stay on the couch as he jumped to his feet, hands fumbling with his pants.

“Shit, Wilson,” I moaned, both hands on my thigh, teeth gritted in pain, “Why did you—” voice trailed off. I rubbed at the spasm, closing my eyes.

“What the hell was that?” Wilson breathed in a panicky voice, not sitting down, tense, silhouetted against my windows, “House—I—god, are you okay?”

“No! You hit my leg!” I yelled, hissing in pain.

“I had to!” he shouted, angry, words striking me as realization of what I’d almost done came to me, like thick unyielding curtains drawn back from my mind.

I’d hurt Wilson.

I’d been going to—sickness washed over me and I felt my stomach rise in my throat, stopping as I savagely gritted my teeth, head falling into my hands.

Oh god. I hated myself more than anything right then, that one crystal clear moment of awful realization. I wanted to take whatever was exclusively me, everything he’d tainted and made rotten, and destroy it, I wanted it gone even if that meant I was too. I wanted it out of my head.

I would never hurt Wilson. Never. Or at least that’s what I’d thought. But I had. I’d hurt him.

“House,” I heard Wilson say.

“Leave,” I said, tears hot in my eyes, not looking up.

For as long as it took for everything to turn from red to blue, light to dark, I was sure he’d just leave. After all, I would, I would have left. But he didn’t. He sat back down. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.

“Don’t,” I said, shying away from the threat of contact  _ (god, it’s your mom, keep it together) _ quickly adding a weak laugh that’s drowned out by the running faucet, throat tight. The smooth porcelain plate in my hand dripped soapy water onto the rug at my feet.

“Greg—what’s the matter?” my mom asked apprehensively. The recovered space between us is thick with steam from the sink. The fingertips slipping down my spine hadn’t been hers  _ (my mind’s an empty box, shake it, pick it up, kick it, touch it—open it, it doesn’t matter, it’s empty). _

“Nothing,” I said, moving the plate back over the sink, my sock wet with water. Turned the water off. Plate slipped back into the soapy water. Hands dipped into the suds. My reflection watched me from the window above the sink. Steam obscured the pale face, eyes turning dark and lifeless on glass. There are no colours left. Only light and dark. I’m the shadow on the glass  _ (am I fading or is the reflection?) _ .

My mom took the now clean plate from my hand, carefully drying it. I’ve broken one before. God, they break so easily. My hands were never steady. Mark something as fragile and I’ll break it. It made more sense not to have such valuable things. One slip and it shatters.

I’m stalling. I wiped my hands on the front of my jeans then stuffed one in my pocket, the other scratching at the back of my neck. Waiting for my mom to look up. To look at me. I know if I start I won’t be able to stop. The first word from my mouth would shake and the rest would be sobs, if I even got that far at all.  _ Mom, I cried silently in my head, Mom, help me, please. _

The plate is dry. She put it away. And I can’t. I can’t tell her anything. I told him I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t risk what we had.

I slipped discreetly outside onto the back step. The screen door swings and bangs shut behind me. I wrapped my arms around myself in the early autumn chill. Cold concrete under my bare feet. My eyes closed and I inhaled deeply through my nose, letting my head fall back.

I don’t want to look. I want to leave my eyes closed. But I don’t. I can’t.

There’s enough light so that the tree branches are silhouetted against the tawny mismatched sky. A line of lights stretches to both sides of me, everyone’s backyards lit over each fence. I count three of them to my left and see a dark figure standing in the yard. There’s a flare of orange at an inhale.

I know what it means. He needs me. He’s always so sad if I don’t go to him. He misses me.

I leaned into the backdoor to my mom who is still in the kitchen. Tell her I’m going for a walk.

“House,” my name from far away. A hand touched me and I scrambled to the other end of the couch, arms jerking up frantically, clamping my jaw shut so I didn't make a sound.

“Easy,” the voice said softly, the frequency low and comforting, “It’s okay,” my eyes are shut so I can’t see but I can hear him sigh, backing off, “It’s alright . . . I won’t touch you,” a few moments passed and I uncurled myself, feeling my feet touch the floor, arms lowering, raising a palm to hold my forehead.

“I’m sorry, House,” Wilson said.

I’m shaking my head and when I find my voice it’s rough and barely audible, “No, I am—I’m sorry,” my hand slid over my mouth, like I’m trying to silence myself. I can taste him on my lips. Bourbon and cigars. My eyes shut again.

“House, please,” Wilson said softly from the other end of the couch, careful and afraid, “Talk to me. I can’t leave you like this.”

I said nothing. I don’t want him to know.

“What happened?” he asked, waiting. After a minute he tries again, “Who was it?”

My eyes are still closed. I don’t look at him, “Major Bull Burk,” I said, sniffing back snot, the darkness in my apartment seeming darker than it had been a second ago, “The Bull part’s a nickname, obviously,” I added quietly.

“Who—”

“A friend of my fathers.”

“Your father . . . didn’t know?”

“He was his best friend . . . he was—” my voice broke.

“House,” he said softly, “It was a long time ago—your father is an asshole, but if he’d known—”

“He would have beaten me for being a faggot,” I interrupted. When Wilson said nothing, shocked, disgusted, I have no idea, I shifted, wiping my nose again, “There’s no point talking about it . . . this damn case, this girl, she just . . .”

I felt him shifting closer, inching over the couch slowly like he thought I’d spook, “Its over,” Wilson said, “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“He still does,” I said, “Every time I—” I cut my own words off, hating the sound of them, yet found them tumbling from my lips nonetheless, “ . . . try and get close to someone.”

“Where is he now?” Wilson asked after a pause.

“I don’t know. Still alive, I think, but he’s still around,” I sniffed, clearing my throat. Wilson said nothing more. I stared at my dark floor, blinking at hot tears that welled at the bottom of my eyes. I licked my lips, throat tightening over the words I tried to speak, swallowing back bitter spit, “He said . . .” I started, voice rough as gravel, barely a whisper, “ . . . I was his favourite,” my eyes closed, “I thought . . .” I shook my head, “I thought he . . .”

_ Cared about me _ , my thoughts finished. I took a shaking breath, continuing after a few frustrated seconds, speaking into the darkness.

“You were just a kid,” Wilson said, voice almost pleading, urgent, “What he did was wrong.”

I nodded. Wilson didn’t understand.

I heard Wilson take a breath, I didn’t know what he was going to say, I was vulnerable, afraid, and he knew it, “Have you ever told anyone this before?”

“Except for her, no,” I answered, “Today was the first time.”

Silence. Wilson sighed heavily. I don’t know what he was thinking. Probably pity. Guilt. I barely heard him when he whispered, “I’m so sorry,” but felt him turn toward me slightly.

“Don’t,” I warned. He probably wanted to hug me or touch me and I couldn’t do that. I never did. If he wanted me to kiss him, touch him, I would. But I couldn’t take just simple touching. It didn’t help, it didn’t comfort me.

It was dark and quiet for a long time. I thought he was going to leave. A small square of light from the streetlamp outside stretched over my wood floor, everything else, the kitchen, the hallway, was just shadow.

Eventually he spoke, “I shouldn’t have hit you, I’m sorry.”

“I started it,” I replied tiredly.

“But I wouldn’t—” he stopped, hesitant and awkward like I knew he would be once he found out, “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

I regretted to think that I couldn’t say the same. I would have hurt him. I wouldn’t have stopped. Maybe because I couldn’t, maybe because I didn’t want to, maybe because I actually wanted him, I can’t tell anymore. I sighed, rubbing my temple dully, not wanting to think about any of it anymore.

“I’m fine, Wilson,” I said, trying to sound more stable, “You can just leave.”

But, damn it, he didn’t get up. He didn’t leave. He moved closer, non threateningly inching over the couch cushions. I didn’t flinch, I didn’t look at him. When I felt him take my hand I let him, nonetheless my body tensing.

“There’s one thing I can do,” he said gently, “I wish it was I could erase the past, I wish I could find this guy and—” he cut himself off, “You’ve been hurt, by so many different people . . . I can’t . . . I can’t change that. And I know you’re not going to let me help you, you’d say you don’t need it,” he took a breath, sounding tired, “But there is one thing I can do,” he paused, hand warm in mine, “I can make you dinner.”

I turned to look at him, my eyes meeting his. He blinked, not looking away, face set and resolute, hand tightening around mine.

I hesitantly returned the squeeze, glancing down at our hands, looking from them back to his warm eyes, nodding, “Alright.”


End file.
